When I write

When I write, I take a deep breath every now and again. This gives me oxygen to keep the brain fuelled. Or maybe I thought that inspiration has the word breath in it, and the the more I breathe, the more inspired I become. When I write, I lose myself a bit. It is not really me. Or maybe the real me comes out and expresses itself. The real me is suppressed most of my conscious time. It screams out but cannot be heard - only muffled whispers are intimated sometimes. But the waking mind does not listen. It just keeps on with the business of the moment, that activity, the typing on the keyboard, the google search, the reading of a section of a book, listening to some news, reading the sordid news of smh.com.au. Writing somehow frees me and I become occupied with that occupation in a zen-like type of way. This is the real me, screaming and shouting in the page, jumping up and down, left and right, like a convict that has escaped out of prison and is now dancing in the freedom of the forest, with the afternoon light piercing the leaves and branches, with the soft rain softening the ground, with the sound of birds with their ostentatious chirping, singing, and mating calls. This is freedom, this is me that is born again, gasping for the new air after being stifled for a season. I have always envied writers. I have always wished that I would be able to write but I have not really started except for a few neglected blog entries, and lame entries in a community forum. What have I really written? I should watch out. Is it really me talking in that piece of writing? Or is it some sinister side of me that was waiting in the wings, hoping for a chance to be heard and even seen. I do not know. Maybe that also is a part of me, the good with the sinister, the sinister with the good, like Janus with his two faces. Should I embrace the two equally as being parts of me? I cannot deny them, for they speak and sometimes they shout in my dreams and nightmares, painting images surreal and sometimes frightening, especially when they are vivid and seemed true at the time they played in the stage of the sleeping mind. When I write, an energy bursts out of me, like many hands and limbs creeping out of a tiny bottle. The feat may seem impossible, but they manage in a eerie sort of way, oozing out of the thin neck of the bottle. The constricted neck didn't matter. Nor did the sharp cracks at the edges. All that matters is the action of coming out, sort of being born in agony and concomitant joy.